


Shedding Old Skin

by chucks_prophet



Series: Monsters & Madness [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bartender Sam Winchester, But Nothing Else Beyond That, Djinn Dean Winchester, Established Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, F/M, Human Eileen, Intervention, It Grosses Me Out So I Have to Put That In Just In Case, Monsters, Oh and Semi-Graphic Descriptions of Shapeshifting, Sequel to A Previously Written Fic, Shapeshifter Sam Winchester, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22873288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Sam senses danger almost immediately.How can he not? The guy’s wearing a brown fleece over a beige turtleneck and jeans. He’s practically a page from Ted Bundy’s How-To-Dress-The-Part section of his self-help to serial murdering.
Relationships: Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Series: Monsters & Madness [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644205
Kudos: 10





	Shedding Old Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Did I write a sequel to something I wrote back in, like, July??? Yes. Yes, I did. The idea for something has been swirling around in my mind for quite sometime. So if you follow the OG fic, here's a little gift! And if you haven't read the OG fic already, please click the previous button on the series tab and read it because it'll make a lot more sense. (And it has a good bit of Destiel.)
> 
> I may write more spin-offs for this series if I'm just as inspired. I have a couple more ideas.

Sam senses danger almost immediately.

How can he not? The guy’s wearing a brown fleece over a beige turtleneck and jeans. He’s practically a page from Ted Bundy’s How-To-Dress-The-Part section of his self-help to serial murdering.

Even the way he keeps his facial hair is unnatural. It’s not clean-shaven, but it’s not quite stubble. It’s a weird in-between that screams control and, as a result, is patchy, making it look like he smeared his jaw with Elmer’s stick glue and threw black pepper at it.

And on top of it, he corners the most obvious girl in the bar. She’s sitting at the end of the counter—the perfect place to be when giving people a clear signal _not_ to approach you—tapping the base of her glass with nails cut so short, it probably hurts her even doing that. Her chipping black nail polish alludes to a much more intense style compared to her plain, low-cut tank top and jean jacket—the sleeves of which barely cover some old, finger-shaped bruises riding along her wrists. She’s actually quite pretty, despite her matted-down brown hair and smudged red lipstick.

In spite of her initial disinterest in social interaction and his… well, _everything…_ they’re actually somewhat hitting it off. Sam would stop prying if the itch along his spine wasn’t tingling. He always knows when someone is bad. Call it empathy or intuition, but at the end of the day, he’s a monster too. He knows these things.

So he doesn’t let it go. And his instincts prove right when the girl leaves to use the restroom. The guy bids her parting with a smile until she’s completely out of sight. Then, when he thinks Sam isn’t looking, he slips a little white pill into her drink. Even worse, he leans back in his barstool, as if he just took a hit off some good pot.

Sam doesn’t move too fast, as not to tip him off, but he wastes no time catching up with the girl. He can’t make the assumption she’s using the restroom as a classic ditch effort. He’s made the mistake of not interfering and had girls’ copy-pasted social media photos from the local news haunt him for months after.

He rounds behind the bar and into the kitchen. It used to be a process; shedding his skin to slip into another. It used to be this whole excruciating thing involving crackling, pulsating bones, slow and tentative hands tearing through old skin more akin to wrapping paper, and rapid tooth decay.

Now… well, it’s the same, minus the initial trepidation. And he works in a restaurant. Serrated knives have changed the game entirely.

“Oh my God,” the girl gasps when Sam catches her coming out, clutching her chest. “You scared me.”

That’s when Sam notices the pendant around her neck. It’s a silver cylinder chamber, like the kind that holds ashes. There’s even a birthstone on the cap. Peridot. The month of August. The same month the girl mentioned when Creepy Guy asked if she had any plans before the start of the new semester, and she said she plans on spending the week with her mom the next town over.

If he had any awareness beyond his own, he’d piece together that there is no mom. That now she’s only a story to tell when guys come on a little too strong. So people don’t know she’s alone.

Maybe it even helps convince her she isn’t.

Sam tries not to visibly deflate. Any crack in his new visage will give him away and make the girl even more terrified than she already should be.

“I have to go,” he says, trying his best attempt at a weak laugh. Luckily, she hasn’t known Creepy Guy long enough to know what it sounds like, so it should be convincing. “My, uh… my dad’s in the hospital. Car accident, I guess.”

The girl’s mouth parts in disbelief, but there’s also something there Sam wouldn’t have been able to detect without noticing the small urn around her neck. “Oh my god! I-I’m so sorry! I totally get it. You have to be with him.”

“No, I am,” Sam replies, “truly. You deserve better than this.”

Even though there’s a double meaning behind that statement that completely tears Sam up inside, he braves a smile. Though small, the girl gives him one in return.

Sam slips out and back into the kitchen, where he transforms back into himself and God, he’s never been more thankful to be him. Even just being Creepy Guy for three minutes felt like slipping into a vessel filled with warm pudding… warm from natural, brazen confidence and practiced charisma.

He returns to the bar, where Creepy Guy’s still eerily perched, eyes gazing off in the direction of the restroom. He’s shifting his weight as he asininely runs his finger around the rim of the girl’s abandoned glass.

Grabbing one of the five dirty glasses that was set on the marble counter when he left, and a rag from the sink, Sam starts cleaning. When he sees the girl rounding the corner of the dividing wall, he drops the glass, effectively startling Creepy Guy out of his creepy trance.

“Agh, damn,” Sam groans, reaching to grab the broom. “These people, man, I swear. They leave their dirty glasses lying around and they just take off. No tip, nothing. Kinda like your date. Except she left _you_ with the bill.”

This gets Creepy Guy’s attention. He sits up a little straighter and cocks his head. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, man. Why do you think she slipped off to the bathroom? She took off a long time ago.”

Creepy Guy sighs.

“Hey, if you’ve got it that bad, maybe you can still catch her. I think I saw her head east.”

Creepy Guy lifts his drooping head and his eyes widen. He doesn’t say a word for whatever plan he’s concocting (Sam doesn’t want to hear it anyway). He just slaps a generous twenty on the island and he’s out of the bar at a brisk pace.

As soon as he leaves, another enters and takes his place. The man greets him with the nod of his cowboy hat, lifting it to reveal a dozen dancing snake heads (monsters and normies alike are welcome at Hell’s Bells). Just as he’s about to order, Sam cuts him off.

“Sorry, give me one second. I just have to place a quick call.”

He turns around, facing the drinks, pulls out his phone, and dials three familiar numbers.

“ ** _9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”_**

“Hi, yes. I’d like to report a man who just attempted to rape one of my patrons. Brown coat, beige turtleneck, and jeans. He’s heading east on Ferguson and fifth. He’s aggravated and might be loaded on more than just alcohol, so you may have to use a little extra force to take him down.”

Clicking END on the call, Sam slides back around, facing the new customer again with a friendly smile. “What’ll it be tonight, boss?”

🔪

“Another rough night?”

Sam’s aggressive chopping comes to a halt. The hallway light illuminates the many incisions made into the cutting board. Custom, from her. You can barely make out the ‘t’ and ‘y’ in Happy Birthday.

Serrated knives aren’t good for everything.

“Sorry,” he says softly, as if it’s not only them in their considerably large house. Kids are something they’ve been talking about, but Sam’s been hesitant about. The risk of raising a child who can shift always outweighs bringing one into creation. And adoption is out of the question. Shifters and other monsters aren’t legally allowed to adopt yet. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Eileen wraps her robe tighter around her small frame as she steps closer into the light. “You didn’t. You know that.”

“You mean you know _me_ ,” Sam corrects, bringing tightly- pressed fingers to his temple in sign, but there’s no heat behind it. There never is.

He abandons the knife and tomato he’s chopping and moves towards her. His arms wrap around her and he clings to her like a wax seal. Sam’s learned a long time ago no matter how much he wants to return to sender, Eileen is undeliverable. She always ends up here.

“It’s just hard sometimes,” he admits, mouthing the words into her neck. “There’s so much evil in this world. Some days I don’t know who’s worse.”

Eileen wriggles her arms free from his tight embrace and forces his head up at that. “ _I_ know who’s worse. Either that or I picked the wrong man to marry.”

Though softly, Sam smiles. He leans into her hands and releases his to sign ‘tired’ before collapsing into her.

“Well, sleep would help that.”

“You know what I mean,” he mumbles into her chest.

“Why not consider it again?”

“Hmm?”

“You and your brother,” she says, running her hands through his long, sweaty strands. “Memory Lane Therapy Services. A shapeshifter and a djinn working together? You could help a lot of people. Dean even said so. Hell, I know if I had a photocopy Renny to talk to, I would’ve been on the road to recovery a lot sooner.”

Sam lifts himself up to hold her again. He knows she’s almost completely recovered from the trauma of shooting her literal partner in crime, but he can still feel her pain. That’s the thing about being a shifter (or any monster of the realm). You don’t have to transform into someone (nor will he ever transform into Eileen) to feel their pain. You sort of become hypersensitive to the pain around you.

“Not that Dean hasn’t helped me immensely with the memory implants,” Eileen continues, “but there’s a difference between numbing the pain with a stronger memory and _being_ the memory. You could give closure to a lot of people.”

“You know I can do that for you any time,” Sam reassures, pulling back again with hands on either side of her face. “Just say the word.”

As quick as his hands are on her, they’re at his sides, shoved down by Eileen. “This isn’t about me,” she snaps. “This is about _you_! It’s about wanting something better for yourself! And if you don’t want that, then don’t you at least want to help people on a bigger scale?”

Sam’s mouth parts in confusion. He knew she was affecting him. He’s reminded every day when he wakes up as himself and _stays_ himself, not a version he wishes he was. But he never knew how much he was affecting her in this way.

Guess he can’t always feel everything.

But he can feel the wetness that clings to his shirt when he pulls her back in, and the single sob that follows suit. God knows how long she’s been holding her breath.

Sam’s been doing it so long, he forgot what breathing is.

“Maybe it’s time I relearn.”

“What?” Eileen says softly. He must’ve said it against her neck. Sam shakes his head.

“Nothing, I—I was just thinking… maybe it’s time to reconsider my career.”

Eileen smiles against his chest. “I was hoping you’d say that,” she says, standing on her tip-toes to whisper the next part in his ear: “Because I’d like to revisit the discussion about children again. If you’re willing.”

Sam pulls back and a small smile transforms into a much bigger one. His face hurts a little doing so, and that’s when he realizes it’s been too long since he’s been truly happy. _More than_ , he signs.

🔪

Dean’s hand slips on the O Negative he’s drinking through a bendy-straw when the door chimes, spilling blood all over the carpet.

“Oh! Oh no.” He scrambles to pick up the overflowing bag, to no success. “I’m so sorry. This is _so_ unprofessional. I wasn’t expecting my next appointment until—“

Dean’s eyes widen when he catches eyes with the familiar stranger.

“Sammy? What’re you doing here? Is everything okay? Is Eileen—?”

“At home, sleeping,” Sam reassures, braving a step closer. “But I’m not. Not anymore.”

“What’re you—?”

“If the offer’s still on the table, I’ll take it.”

Dean’s wide eyes soften into familiar crow’s feet and an equally wrinkly smile. “Wait. Really?”

Sam holds out his hand to shake in solidarity. “As long as you’ll have me, Doctor Sleep.”

“I can’t believe you quoted something cool for once.”

Dean shakes his hand. It’s a firm shake. And sticky.

The blood.

This is gonna be quite the adventure.


End file.
